


Summer Serendipity

by LeQuin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 07:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26968321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeQuin/pseuds/LeQuin
Summary: A girl looking for a rebound love, an artist aspiring to be struggling, an overeducated cleaning lady and a best friend. These people are unknowingly connected by what they are witness to.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 59
Collections: Lyric Llama





	Summer Serendipity

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer**
> 
> Harry Potter and all associated characters, locations and what not belong to J.K. Rowling and whoever she sells the rights to. I have borrowed these characters, locations and what not in order to mess around with them. In some cases I have lifted a piece of dialogue or scene directly from the books as a touchstone. I do not own anything except the plot and I am not making any money from this endeavor. This applies to the whole story.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **AN:**
> 
> This fic was written as part of a challenge where you are presented with a line or two of song lyrics. The goal of the prompt is to focus on the snippet you're given rather than the song as a whole and write a Harmony fic (lyrics don't have to be included as a quote in the text). The lyrics I was given were:
> 
> "Something in the way she moves attracts me like no other lover. Something in the way she woos me, I don't want to leave her now. You know I believe and how Somewhere in her smile she knows That I don't need no other lover. Something in her style that shows me, I don't want to leave her now. You know I believe and how." -Something by The Beatles
> 
> That said, let's get into it.

Mazzie Cox was walking down the beach eyeing the half-naked men present from behind her sunglasses. Her mother would hate that Mazzie wasn't introducing herself as 'Margaret', but as far as Mazzie was concerned it was the old bag's own fault for saddling her with that kind of name in the first place. It wasn't the fifties anymore and at eighteen Mazzie felt that she was qualified to know what kind of name suited her.

She also felt qualified to find some cute guy to be her summer boyfriend; another thing Mum wouldn't approve of. This first walk down the beach was just to check the meat on offer. Mazzie was determined that she wouldn't settle for anything less than the best looking bloke on the French beaches.

Oh, she had other boxes that any boy would have to check, but nothing would allow an ugly plonker a chance with her. She especially wanted to avoid any guy who looked like her last boyfriend Gazza.

The fact that she had broken up with that prick had been one of the reasons she and her girlfriends had booked this trip to France. They would probably have gone anyway, but this had provided the kind of impetus that promised they would have the best stories of any group when they got back to Knutsford and their drab, grey, British lives.

The best of those stories would of course be about Mazzie having a whirlwind romance with some rich, suave, euro-hunk. That was the kind of story that would get back to Gazza within minutes on the first Friday they were back and clubbing it up in Manchester; Mazzie wouldn't even have to tell it herself. And when Gazza would inevitably try to win her back, she would just sigh wistfully as she remembered the all the ways in which her summer love had been superior to his shaven head and track-suit clad arse.

_Serves him right for cheating on me... and for making out like the fact that I had swallowed Mick's knob had anything to do with it. That was oral and I was drunk. It wasn't full-on fucking like he done with that slut Kiara._

Mazzie gave herself a shake to throw off the unpleasant memories of her life back home. _All that matters is that I deserve better and I'm going to get it._ So far though, the beach wasn't yielding the fruits that she'd hoped for when they'd booked this holiday.

Mazzie and her friends had splurged on an all-inclusive in Cannes, the city of film stars, because they had been sure that they'd be able to catch the eye of a couple of wealthy, continental playboys who would show them all the best clubs for a week or so; perhaps even take them down to Saint Tropez. So far though, most of the men on this beach were _old_ ; in their thirties and fourties old. A lot of them were there with some desiccated, deflated husk of a wife and one or two with what had to be a girlfriend.

Every time she saw one of those mismatched couples, Mazzie sized up the girlfriend. Each time she came to the conclusion that the other girl wouldn't be a match for her, if Mazzie were willing to entertain the idea of sleeping with someone so crusty he probably creaked when he got up in the morning.

Mazzie continued on, her hungry eyes roving over the smattering of people sitting on towels and under parasols. Her patience finally paid off when she ran into the first person she thought might be worth her time and it was one of the most gorgeous boys she had ever seen.

Her new boyfriend had messy, black hair that made her think he'd be the 'bad one' in any boy band. He was wearing a black rash guard that managed to outline all sorts of delicious muscles and a pair of floral board-shorts. There was also a lightning-bolt-shaped scar on his forehead that Mazzie was already imagining being the result of his battle with some unspeakably evil uncle who wanted his title as Marquis of Toulouse or in an honour duel with his best friend over Mazzie herself.

She quickly checked that she looked appropriate for the occasion. With a little shimmy, her bikini was pressing what it covered into the best possible shape and a look in her hand mirror confirmed that her makeup was still absolutely brill. She pouted a few times at the mirror to make sure that she'd be making her cutest face when she introduced herself and slipped it back into her purse.

Convinced that she was everything no man could resist, Mazzie continued on her way, letting the path she'd been taking lead her right up to the man of her dreams without running like some needy virgin. As she approached, she noticed that he was sitting on one of three towels. _With any luck he has two friends who look just like him who are off fetching a bottle of champers and some strawberries._

Closer and closer she came, but he refused to look up and give Mazzie a chance to catch his eye. _Nothing for it, I'll have to open him up._ Even with that decision, Mazzie waited until she was right on top of the boy before speaking up. "Bomb sure," she greeted him with the little French she remembered from her last holiday.

The boy's head jerked up in surprise and Mazzie was caught in the gaze of the most gorgeous, green eyes she had ever seen until he blinked rapidly and slipped on a pair of sunglasses of his own. "Um, hello?" he answered.

A part of Mazzie was disappointed that his accent was clearly British. On the other hand he didn't sound like he came from the greater Manchester area either, nor even from Newcastle and things _would_ be a lot easier if she could just speak English with him. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm lost," Mazzie lied through her teeth. "I've completely forgotten where my hotel is."

"Oh," the boy squirmed, "I'm afraid I'm not all that familiar here. I don't know that I could really help you."

Mazzie had to resist the urge to frown. Boys usually didn't need more than the slightest hint that she might possibly be interested in them to try and prolong the time spent together by any means necessary. _Ok, time to ramp this thing up._

"Please?" Mazzie asked with a faux-frightened little pout as she leant forward, clasping her hands together so that her upper arms 'accidentally' pushed her breasts together a little more. "I'd feel so much safer if I had someone I could understand with me."

The boy was already shaking his head. "Not before my friends get here. Besides, one of them actually speaks some French and would be a lot more able to help you."

 _Well, meeting another hunk or two wouldn't be bad…_ Mazzie thought to herself, trying not to smirk. "Do you mind if I sit with you while we wait for them?"

The boy shot an awkward look at the two empty towels and then shifted over slightly on his own to make room. "Alright," he agreed unenthusiastically.

Mazzie plopped herself down next to him with a bright smile that hid a racing mind. Ever since she'd first 'sprouted' in school, Mazzie couldn't remember any guy ever being less than completely attentive to her every whim, but this boy just didn't seem to want anything to do with her. It both frustrated and intrigued her. _Maybe he's so used to dating models that I'm average to him? Well, he didn't tell me to get lost at any rate so he probably doesn't think I'm a complete minger._

"So what's your name?" Mazzie asked, casually tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as she looked at her companion out of the corner of her eye.

"Harry." The answer wasn't any more welcoming than any other action she'd been able to elicit from him.

"I'm Mazzie," she tried with her most devastating smile. "How long have you been here?"

"A few days now," Harry shrugged. He seemed realise that she was waiting for him to carry his end of the conversation and added. "My friends and I are taking a three week holiday and we agreed that we'd each get to fill one week."

"Aren't you glad that you chose to come here?" Mazzie asked, already thinking about the story they would tell on their wedding day about how they had unknowingly come to the same resort and things had just gone from there.

Harry just gave another shrug. "It's my mate's idea, really."

This was really not going according to plan. _Time for the big guns._ Leaning over so that her breasts pressed against Harry's upper arm, Mazzie pointed down the beach. "Is that your friends over there?"

The boy next to her flinched and fell away from her, causing Mazzie to fall on top of him accidentally-on-purpose. She stared into the emerald depths of his eyes. Desire welled up in her and she slowly lowered her face towards his.

"Um, sorry, I-..."

Mazzie felt Harry pushing up against her shoulders as he tried to wriggle out from under her. She opened her eyes to find him looking highly uncomfortable as he struggled up, supporting himself on one elbow while the other kept a slight pressure on her shoulder.

Mazzie was so frustrated she could have screamed. Then things got even worse.

"Harry?" a female voice behind her asked. "Who's this?"

Mazzie looked over her shoulder and saw a brunette in a one piece bathing suit eying her critically. _Who's this desperate nerd?_ There was a thoroughly sunburnt red-head standing next to her grinning down at the scene in front of him. "Yes?" Mazzie asked testily, hoping the interruption would realise it wasn't wanted and go away.

"Hermione!" she heard Harry gasp beneath her in relief. "This girl is looking for her hotel, but I don't know a thing about this place and you're the one who speaks French…"

The brunette locked eyes with Mazzie, a mocking smile playing around her lips. "Really?"

"Hmph, I was just asking Harry for some help," Mazzie sniffed, glaring at this new girl to _back off_.

"If you want our help, you could start by getting off him," the brunette shot back sardonically, stepping around Mazzie to pull Harry to his feet.

Another hand appeared in front of Mazzie's face and her gaze followed it up to see the red-head grinning at her as he eyed her appreciatively. _That's a little more like it._ Mazzie allowed the boy to help her to her feet. He wasn't as handsome as her original target, but she had enough experience with this game to know that showing interest in a boy's mates could be enough to get him moving so the redhead got a coy smile for his efforts.

"So what hotel are you looking for?" the brunette asked. Mazzie turned and saw that the cheeky bint had stepped in between her and Harry.

"The Holiday Inn Cannes," Mazzie replied, doing her best not to bite the ends off the words.

The brunette's eyes flicked to something past Mazzie's face and a definite smirk broke out on her lips as one eyebrow cocked. "You mean that large one over there with the terribly obvious and eye-catching sign?"

Mazzie's head snapped around and she found the famous logo staring down at her under the French sun. She felt her face flush. "Um… yeah," she agreed unenthusiastically, cursing in the silence of her own thoughts for forgetting that she hadn't walked all that far from her hotel. _Why didn't I just say that we were staying at some little B &B?! I could have spent the afternoon wandering through Cannes with a gorgeous lad!_

Thankfully, Mazzie's thoughts were interrupted before they showed on her face. "Well, now that that's cleared up, what are your plans for tonight?" the redhead asked.

 _I'm not out of the game yet!_ "Oh, I don't know," Mazzie prevaricated with her practiced pout. "I'd have to talk to my friends about it."

"We're going to try the Chat Noir tonight. Maybe we'll see you there?"

"Maybe," Mazzie agreed flashing the boy a sultry grin. "Thanks for all your help."

"No problem," the redhead smirked, clearly thinking that he had accomplished something just now.

 _The Chat Noir, huh? Just you lads wait. I'll get proper dolled up tonight and we'll see if you still want to look at Plain Jane over there or me._ Determination set, Mazzie marched back towards the hotel. She felt the other girls smile in her back the whole way.

:-:-:-:-:

Jordi looked around the dance floor and decided that he was bored. He had been working behind this bar for six weeks already and had only two more weeks to go before he would pack his bags, leave the closet posing as a flat that he was sharing with Guillem and return to Barcelona for their next year at the _Universitat,_ the University of Barcelona.

Neither he nor Guillem, Jordi's best friend since childhood, came from families wealthy enough to send them here for a holiday so they could stand on the other side of the bar. Guillem had been the one to come up with the idea that they could work in a bar and enjoy the local amenities. The thrust of the idea had been that this would be almost as good as a holiday, maybe even better once you factored in that they would return home with considerably more money than they had arrived with.

Their first applications had been to bars on Ibiza, the island just off the coast of Barcelona, but those wildly expensive clubs only hired bartenders with actual qualifications or recommendations. A fellow university student had pointed them to this slightly rundown club on the Carré d'Or in Cannes.

It had taken a certain economy with the truth to convince their families that this would be a good idea, but Jordi had come through by suggesting that they could also visit the south of Spain and spend their money there.

"Meu nét mai no donarà diners als porcs Franquistes!" Jordi's grandfather had thundered. _My grandson will never give money to Franco's pigs._ It was exactly the kind of response that Jordi had been hoping for. Both his and Guillem's families still hated the south of their country for the repression the north had suffered under the rule of the fascist dictator Francisco Franco.

Jordi's grandfather had survived _La Retirada_ , the flight into France by much of Barcelona's population when the war had been lost and it was a story Jordi had grown familiar with over the many retellings at many family gatherings.

In the end it was decided that it would be better for the boys to work in France than for them to live among the _feixistes_ for two months. Jordi considered himself lucky that they hadn't planned to go near to Perpignan which would probably have been too close to where the refugee camps had been for their grandparents to bear. It was also for the best that they hadn't specified what kind of work they would be doing in France.

While their rejection of anything that had to do with Franco had extended to the Hierarchy of the Catholic Church, Jordi knew that his grandparents still prayed to God and His Saints with the help of a small shrine they had erected in their house. They prayed, among other things, for the founding of a new church, one that wouldn't be as mired in sin as this one had turned out to be. Jordi thought it was all highly ridiculous, but wouldn't have liked to break his _avila_ 's heart by telling her that he would be working in 'a den of sin and iniquity'.

The first few weeks had certainly provided enough 'sin and iniquity' for Jordi and Guillem to enjoy. It turned out that standing behind a bar had conferred a certain level of desirability on the two friends that they didn't enjoy when they sat in the lecture hall. It turned out to be especially easy to convince British and American girls to come to the flat that the two boys had rented.

It didn't bother Jordi that on those nights he could hear Guillem grunting and whatever girl Guillem had brought home squeaking and moaning louder than the bedsprings; he would usually be similarly occupied. Nor did it bother him to see the disappointed looks on the girls' faces when they woke up the next morning to be handed a cup of instant coffee or saw that the little electric stove was missing its knobs and that the boys turned it on using a pair of pliers to twist the metal prongs into hopefully correct positions.

Generally the girls' disappointment evaporated as soon as he casually set up his easel. He'd brought it along in the hope that this holiday would provide him with sufficient inspiration to expand his portfolio. His professors were likely to check it as soon as he got back, just to see if he really wanted to be an artist or if he was just studying arts because he thought it would be an easy degree. Not that he'd gotten around to actually painting anything worth taking home, between working and girls who wanted to drape themselves all over a 'struggling artist'. Inspiration had refused to have anything to do with him either since he'd come to France.

 _The problem,_ he thought to himself, _is that after six weeks you can't fail to notice that nothing ever changes. Each one of those girls has come to the south of France thinking that she'll meet the Count of Monte Christo and be swept away to a life balls, banquets and mind-blowing orgasms. Everyone here, regardless of where they come from or what gender they are, thinks that they are the first to do what they're doing; or at least that they're more extreme in their doing of what everyone else does. By the sixth time, a pair of girls offering to make out in front of you for a free cocktail is just pathetic, especially since half the time they do it even if they don't get the cocktail._

Jordi had mentioned these disillusioned feelings to Guillem who had shaken his head and told him he should drop out of university and do the tortured artist thing properly if he was going to be a melancholic git about a free vacation with all the sex he could stand. Jordi had not brought the matter up a second time. _Just once I'd like to find a girl who actually_ is _as different from the others as she thinks that she is._

As if he had been heard by one of the saints _avilá_ prayed to, the curtain separating the ticket sales and coat check from the club itself was held open and a girl unlike any that Jordi had seen over the past month and a half walked in. She hovered near the entrance and Jordi suspected that she was waiting for someone.

A part of him knew that he should be watching the bar for paying guests (always guests, never customers; the bar staff was absolutely forbidden to refer to the people who stopped by as customers), but Jordi couldn't stop his eyes from flicking back to the new girl every few seconds. She was tall compared to the Catalan women Jordi was used to, or the local French women. Her hair was a mass of chestnut curls that had been put up into a rough pony tail that made Jordi think that the hairstyle was mostly chosen in an effort to keep her neck cool.

The single most noticeable thing about her, what really set Jordi to wondering about who this girl was what she was wearing: a simple, light blue summer dress. _Nobody_ came to a club dressed like that in his experience. Jordi chanced another look around the room and reaffirmed what he'd already known would be true: every other woman there was dressed in clothing that was so tight it might as well have been painted on. Age, nationality and body type seemed to have very little to do with their choice of fashion; there were tight, strapless dresses, tight jeans, tight halter tops, all over toweringly high heels.

His eyes drifted back to the new girl in her light cotton dress and noticed that she was wearing flat-soled shoes under it. As he was staring the curtain opened again and a redheaded teenager walked through, grinning at the girl through a shiny, red face. _Boyfriend? Hmm… maybe, maybe not. Won't be a problem either way._

Jordi had noticed that the women who came to this club rarely cared whether or not they were in a relationship with someone else until they woke up the next morning. _Besides, this guy doesn't look like he'd be much of a threat even if he did get angry about me sleeping with his girl._ It was just hard to take anyone who was that sunburnt seriously.

The curtain moved again and a second man joined them. Jordi wasn't any more convinced that this dork would be keeping the girl here if Jordi invited her to his flat.

In order not to get caught staring, Jordi helped a few of the people who came to the bar, but his eyes kept flicking around the room and finding Summer Dress-and-Curls. Like most people did upon entering, the three newcomers made a circuit of the room before finding a place where they could stand without being constantly jostled. As soon as they had a square metre to call their own, they stuck their heads together and a moment later Summer Dress-and-Curls began worming her way through the crowd, towards the bar.

Jordi quickly wrapped up his current order and went straight for the girl who had just arrived so that Guillem wouldn't be able to get to her first. He ignored the cries of indignation from people who had thought that they were next to be helped. _People always think they should be helped sooner_ he thought to himself as he leant over to Summer Dress-and-Curls with a smile that had set a blush on the cheeks of every girl he'd flashed it at this summer.

"Comment voulez-vous que je vous serve?" he asked, barely suppressing a smirk. _How would you like me to serve you?_ _Not like Anglophones ever get the double entendre unless you translate and explain it._

Summer Dress-and-Curls proved once again that she wasn't like any of the other girls Jordi had encountered when she just cocked an unimpressed eyebrow. "Un Cuba Libre, une bière et un vin blanc, s'il vous plait," she ordered calmly.

" _Vin sec ou doux?_ Dry or sweet wine?"

" _Le sec."_ Her response pleased Jordi, whose thoughts briefly flashed to the way the bar staff referred to the sweet white wine that so many of the tourists, especially the younger ones, swilled: _essence de salope_ , slut petrol. _I knew she'd be too classy to order the sweet stuff._

"Bien sûr." Jordi included all the flourishes he usually didn't bother with while pouring the drinks, flipping the bottles end over end before opening them and pouring. That wasn't why people came here after all, but it was a good way of showing off. As he flipped the bottle opener back into its basket, he set the bottle of beer down on the bar next to the glass of wine and the cocktail. " _Cent vingt francs,_ 120 francs," he tallied up. _Time enough to give her a discount later. It wouldn't do to seem over-eager._

The girl on the other side of the bar nodded and held out a pair of banknotes. Jordi made sure to brush her fingers as he took the money. He quickly grabbed the change from the till and placed it in Summer Dress-and-Curls hand, his fingers lingering on her palm without seeming to do so. " _Régale-vous._ Enjoy," he smirked.

Summer-Dress-and-Curls just gave him a suspicious nod and left, doing her best not to spill any of the drinks as she was jostled. Jordi watch her go, admiring the way her pony tail swayed and the tone of her legs as she moved.

When she got back to her group, the girl handed out the drinks. Jordi noted that the beer went to the guy in the glasses while the red one gleefully snatched up the Cuba Libre.

Unable to ignore the guests waiting at the bar, Jordi got to work pouring drinks. By the time the press had eased, Jordi's eyes found Summer-Dress-and-Curls. She seemed to be talking to Beer-and-Glasses, while Red-Rum-and-Coke was trying to impress a blonde in a tight, strapless, glittery, golden dress. From what Jordi could see after watching them for two minutes was that the girl was trying to prod Beer-and-Glasses into feeling envious of his friend. _Not likely to happen from the look of him. I guess even Beer-and-Glasses can tell that this off-the-rack club bunny isn't any different from any of the others standing around him._

The more he watched, the more convinced Jordi became that neither Summer-Dress-and-Curls, nor Beer-and-Glasses really wanted to be there all that much. Neither of them was really dancing to the music, they only spoke to each other and their postures were tense and unwelcoming. _What to do about that, hmm?_

While Jordi, mulled it over, he worked his way through the orders lining up at the bar. His thoughts ended up derailing when he found a smiling, shiny, red face across the bar from him. A quick look over the boy's shoulder revealed the presence of a blonde pressing up against him with a smirk. Jordi couldn't quite tell whether she was the same one he had seen the boy with before.

 _It's not important either way. He's taken himself out of the game for the real prize, that much is certain._ "Oui?"

"Can I get two of the fizzy black stuff?" the redhead asked excitedly.

 _Fizzy black stuff? British!_ Shaking his head at the complete lack of sophistication on display, Jordi set about making two Cuba Libres. He kept his movements a lot more functional than he had for Summer-Dress-and-Curls. When he set the glasses on the bar he discovered that the redhead had turned around and was mashing his lips against the blonde's, his back leaning up against the bar.

Annoyed, Jordi tapped the guy on the shoulder. He had to repeat the action more firmly before he got a response. " _Cent soixante francs, sil vous plait, monsieur_."

"Oh. Right, right," the redhead nodded, digging in his pocket. When he looked back up with an insipid grin he was holding out two crumpled bills in a sweaty fist.

Jordi accepted the money and took the change out of the till. By the time he looked back at the pair who had just paid they were already lost in each other's lips again. _A tip it is. Gràcies senyor, thank you sir._

Unable to help himself, Jordi's eyes sought out Summer-Dress-and-Curls to see what she thought of Red-Rum-and-Coke's behaviour. She didn't seem to have noticed, caught up in discussing something with Beer-and-Glasses, their heads bent closely together.

In response to something Beer-and-Glasses must have said, Summer Dress-and-Curls shook her head, her bouncing pony tail emphasizing the movement. Both of them looked at the bar and then Beer-and-Glasses nodded and began threading his way through the crowd towards where Jordi was standing, several people over from the scene Red-Rum-and-Coke was making.

As he got closer, Jordi got a better look at this second obstacle to Summer Dress-and-Curls coming home with him. He couldn't tell whether Beer-and-Glasses kept his hair that messy on purpose, but decided that it wouldn't matter in the long run.

When Beer-and-Glasses got to the bar, Jordi got his first good look at this guy's eyes. An animal instinct that Jordi hadn't known he possessed roused itself and sent electricity running up and down his spine. He couldn't remember having ever been so viscerally aware of his body before. There was something odd about those eyes.

It wasn't the colour, though Jordi couldn't recall having ever seen that particular shade before. Rather it was like he was looking into a pair of pools so deep that he couldn't see the bottom. Worse, just below the surface of those pools simmered something that he couldn't define, but that was undeniably lethal. It wasn't a threat; not yet. In that moment Jordi felt convinced of one single thing though: _if I try a move on Summer Dress-and-Curls, my body will wash up on the beach and no one will be able to tell my mother how or why I died._

It was a ridiculous notion. The man on the other side of the bar probably wasn't really a killer and even if he was, Jordi certainly thought Beer-and-Glasses would be in control of himself enough that he didn't go around killing everyone who annoyed him. _But you don't doubt that he could_ a small voice whispered in the back of his mind.

Jordi ignored it and the sheen of cold sweat between his shoulder blades as he asked the man as politely as he could "que puis-je te verser?" _What can I pour you?_

Beer-and-Death looked at him for a second and then answered in English. "Dry white wine and a beer, please."

Jordi nodded and hurried to pour the drinks, setting them down in front of Beer-and-Death. "40 francs, please, sir," he said in his best English, fighting to keep his voice from shaking.

Beer-and-Death slid a note across the bar. Jordi barely noticed that it was a hundred franc bill and snatched the change out of the till, trying to keep his eyes on the man on the other side of the bar and pushed the coins towards him.

Beer-and-Death pocketed the coins and gave Jordi one last eerily considering look. _“Mercí_ ,” he grunted out with a novice accent as he picked up the drinks and moved off.

Jordi nodded at the man’s back and felt himself trembling in relief at he didn’t even know what. He looked down at the bank note he held and saw the image of Paul Cezanne looking back up at him from the hundred franc note. _Look at you,_ he heard the Post-Impressionist master muttering in his head. _Perhaps now you will heed your_ avilá _?_

The young Spanish bartender shook himself and put the money away, looking for another guest to help. Naturally, the one time he had no interest in looking at the patrons on the dance floor, nobody was thirsty. Against his will, Jordi's eyes wandered back to the group he'd been observing all night. The smile Summer Dress-and-Curls gave Beer-and-Death when he handed her the wine cut through Jordi's heart.

Then the change in the name he'd given to the man who'd just ordered registered and he grabbed a cloth to wipe the bar down; anything he could do to distract himself that didn't include risking that man's ire any more than he already had.

The next few times that Beer-and-Death or Red-Rum-and-Coke came up to the bar, Jordi left them to Guillem who had apparently not even noticed Summer Dress-and-Curls. In fact, Guillem seemed to have already lined up one of the strapless, skin-tight dresses for the night if the obnoxious way the woman was tittering at his friend and rubbing her finger along her glass of sweet white wine was any indication. _Looks like I'm better off getting home a little later tonight._

When the lights in the club started to come up a bit, illuminating corners of the club that had remained in darkness and giving their occupants the first subtle push out the door, Jordi was ready to breathe a sigh of relief. The lights were also a sign to the staff that the bar was now closed and that they should refuse service to anyone who tried to order.

"Guillem," Jordi called over to his friend. "If you keep an eye on the bar while I go for a smoke outside, I'll cover the cleaning."

Guillem eagerly agreed and turned back to his glassy eyed hookup. Jordi knew that the chance to take the girl home now rather than having to meet up with her again in a few days was no small part in his friends easy acceptance of the trade.

 _Still, we're both getting something out of this. I need to not be caught in this place for a few minutes._ Jordi quickly made his way through the door marked 'privé', the staff room and out the back of the building, lighting a cigarette as he went. The nicotine hitting his bloodstream calmed him somewhat and the sight of the night sky illuminated by the rainbow of neon signs allowed him to breathe easier than he had for hours.

Jordi let the smoke leak from his lips and thought back to what he had seen and felt that night. The sensations wouldn't leave him alone. It was almost like he could still hear Summer-Dress-and-Curls talking with Beer-and-Death.

"Harry, I can't find Ron anywhere."

 _Wait! That_ is _her! Why is she still here?_ Jordi hunkered back against the wall, hoping desperately that the girl wouldn't come walking around the corner. _At least let her not bring Beer-and-Death here. A dark back alley is_ not _where I want to meet that man again._

"You don't suppose he went home with that blonde do you?" a male voice asked. It was difficult to recognise anyone's voice without the music blaring over the conversation, but Jordi had the terrible suspicion that _avilá's_ saints were dangling him over the fire.

"I'm afraid it might be very possible, Harry." Summer-Dress-and-Curls sounded apologetic.

"Damn it, this was awkward enough last time around when it wasn't a girl that practically stalked me," Beer-and-Death muttered. "I don't suppose I could apply for asylum?"

Summer-Dress-and-Curls laughed musically as Jordi cursed his lacklustre English. He'd thought that he was following their conversation fairly well, but now it didn't make any sense. "Haven't I granted you that every night so far?" the girl around the corner chuckled.

"I thought it would still be polite to ask," the man answered with an audible smirk.

 _Are they… are they_ flirting _? I need to get out of here._ Jordi ducked back into the club before he could become the awkward witness to something he wanted no part of, not anymore. As soon as he was back behind the bar, Jordi caught Guillem waving at him while ushering his catch out the door. _With any luck those two will be done by the time I get to the flat. I don't think I could deal with them in the middle of the act tonight._

Shaking himself Jordi got to work, polishing the bar, restocking the fridges and mopping the floor. It was a routine he had grown used to over the weeks of his employment, but one he attended to with uncommon focus this night.

When he stepped outside and locked the door, dropping the key in the letterbox for the owner to give to whoever was on shift the next day, the sun was already peeking over the horizon. Jordi stuffed his hands into his pockets and began the walk back to the flat. So caught up in his own thoughts, he didn't even notice the way the building's front door jammed or the uneven stairs worn smooth by hundreds and thousands of feet before him.

It was only at the door to the flat that he shared that he shared with his best friend that Jordi's consciousness focused on the here and now. Taking care not to make any noise that would lead to an awkward encounter with Guillem and the girl, Jordi eased the door open and stepped into the studio flat.

Even in the half light of the morning sun pressing through threadbare curtains it was easy to spot the lump of two entwined people in Guillem's bed. Less welcome was the clothes that had carelessly been thrown onto his own. Combined with the musty smell of stale lovemaking that hung in the room meant that Jordi's bed lost all appeal to him. _I don't think I'd get much sleep if laid down right now, no matter how tired I feel._

Unfortunately, Jordi's decision left him unsure of what he was supposed to do now. He tried to decide whether to leave, but there was nowhere for him to go outside of this flat either. As he tried to come up with something he could do to distract himself, Jordi kept getting derailed over and over again by the memory of green eyes and a looming, indistinct fear.

He began pacing back and forth, trying to purge himself of his unease. As he turned around in the small decrepit kitchen to take the three steps to the other side of the flat, the easel leaning against the wall caught his eye. He grabbed it and set it up, placing an empty canvas on it. Sitting down on his stool, Jordi began mixing paints.

It took a long time to get the shades on his palette to match the images forming in his head. The professors at the _Universitat_ would probably be horrified at the poor lighting, but Jordi was no longer in control of his body. The image in his mind had to come out and until his canvas reflected what he felt there was no stopping.

Jordi's brush raced across the canvas, streaks and swirls of colour appearing in its wake. The world beyond the borders of the canvas ceased to exist and all that mattered was the image taking shape before his eyes.

When his arm finally dropped to his side and he leaned back, Jordi was caught by what he had created. The painting didn't show any defined shapes, but there was something about the swirls of colour that seemed almost alive. Entranced, the young artist could only sit and stare, wondering how this piece had ever flowed out of his hands.

A groan and the creak of bedsprings was the first indication Jordi received that Guillem was waking up. He heard some shifting and then his friend's bare feet padding up behind him. Jordi felt, rather than saw Guillem stopping behind him to look at the canvas.

His best friend let out a low whistle. "What a colour. What kind of _malson_ , what kind of nightmare did you have that birthed this?" Guillem muttered, low enough that the lump in his bed wouldn't wake.

Jordi just shook his head, unwilling to explain how affected he'd been by the guests at the bar.

"Whatever it was, the professors are going to be lining up to suck your _polla_ ," Guillem judged with awe ringing in his voice, his hand reaching out past Jordi as if to touch the canvas, only to stop short and hover there. "It's unreal… I feel like if I touch this brown and gold area, the black and green bit will come alive and chew my hand off."

Jordi shrugged again, looking at his haunting composition. _If you only feel like you're about to lose your hand, then there's room for improvement._ He shook himself and picked up the painting, setting it against the wall so that it could continue drying without the girl in Guillem's bed waking and seeing it. _I'll try again tonight._

Whether or not Guillem's prediction regarding their professors' reactions came true no longer mattered. Rather, Jordi felt consumed by the need to give a shape he could understand to the formless dread he'd felt that night. He didn't know it at the time, but it would shape the rest of his oeuvre.

:-:-:-:-:

Fatiah restrained a sigh as she pushed the cleaning cart closer to the next door.

Back in Algiers she had been a university student, on track for a promising career as a journalist. Then Front Islamique du Salut, the Islamic Salvation Front, won the local elections and tensions that had always lived beneath the surface of her homeland hand begun to simmer.

Two years later FIS looked to be winning the national elections when the Army cancelled the whole process in a coup. With a depressing inexorability Algeria rumbled down the road to war. When university academics, writers and journalists began being assassinated regularly, Fatiah had known that it was only a matter of time before these fanatics decided that she deserved a bullet behind her ear for no better reason than that she was a woman holding a pen.

She fled.

Her family had helped smuggle her out of the country to their former colonial overlords across the Mediterranean. Once in France though, Fatiah soon realised that she didn't have the money to continue her university education and the French weren't particularly eager to help any Algerian into the upper echelons of their society.

She had nowhere to go, no marketable skills or diplomas that anyone would acknowledge; she didn't even have enough money to return to Algiers and take her chances with the fanatics. The young Algerian woman had at one point wondered whether she would be doomed to prostitution to preserve the life she had fled to save.

Thankfully it had not come to that. Fatiah had been hired by one of the many seaside hotels as a cleaner. It was thankless, uninspiring work; a far cry from what she had dreamt of doing before her world collapsed around her. She was also a more than a little aware that what she made would be considered less than minimum wage if her passport had a different colour.

 _No use going down that path again, girl. Just get through this floor and the next one and you can go home._ Fatiah eyed the door handle and noted the absence of a 'Do Not Disturb' sign. Regulations were that she should knock twice and announce herself, but her feet ached and her back was already tightening in a way that suggested that she'd be groaning when she sat down. _They're probably out getting completely burnt up on the beach anyway._

Fatiah pulled on the card that hung from her apron on a retractable cord and used it to open the door. The inside of the room was darker than she expected. The chambermaid's thoughts flashed to what she usually saw when a room was left like this and offered up a silent prayer. _Please let this not be another room caked with the filth of teenagers who think their mother is still here to pick up after them._

As she searched for the light switch, Fatiah resolved that she would raise any children she might have to never make unnecessary work for other people. They would be self-sufficient and never reliant on handouts or the all-too-fickle kindness of others.

Her fingers finally landed on the smooth plastic of the light switch, and Fatiah's fingers pressed it into the 'on' position, already turning around to take in the carnage. Getting a good look at the room she froze.

A small part of her mind noted that the room was unusually tidy for being occupied, the rest more focused on the fact that the room, and specifically the bed, was very much occupied.

She could see a messy head of black hair and a muscular arm wrapped around a slim torso. What really kept her gaze was a pair of cinnamon eyes that were watching her with interest, but not concern, a contented and knowing smile playing about the lips that sat beneath them.

" _Shh,"_ the woman in the bed whispered. " _Ne le reveille pas._ " Don't wake him. There was a definite 'please' in her eyes.

Fatiah nodded woodenly, unable to stop staring like some backwater rube. The woman sighed wriggled herself closer to the man behind her, drawing a soft groan and a reciprocal adjustment. It didn't escape Fatiah's notice that part of that adjustment was under the woman's shirt. _Newlyweds. I just_ had _to walk in on a pair of newlyweds._

She began to back out of the room, her hand already reaching behind her for that damnable light switch she was starting to regret pressing, when those deep, doe-brown eyes snapped back up to lock her in place. " _Pourriez-vous accrocher le panneau 'ne pas déranger', s'il vous plaît?_ "

 _You should have done that last night!_ The retort died on Fatiah's lips and she just gave another wide-eyed nod, her imagination throwing up images of the two practically falling into the room, so wrapped up in each other that the mundane requirements of the world were impotent to intrude.

Fatiah's fingers found the switch, flicked it and she fled. She jammed the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob like the woman had asked and closed the room of as fast as she could without slamming the door.

Out in the hallway she sagged against the door, feeling the way her pulse was racing and her lungs were gulping for air. It took a minute for her body to settle and even then she was grateful that she had the cart to steady her as she made her way to the next room.

For the rest of the work day Fatiah was constantly assaulted by images of what she'd seen in that room. Little details that she hadn't even consciously noticed at the time drifted up and she wondered whether she'd seen or imagined the shirt still covering the man's shoulder, the way their legs were entangled under the sheets or the way he'd nuzzled his lover's neck as he settled back down in response to her shifting.

Fatiah's distraction meant that she took longer than usual to complete her rounds. It was perhaps a good thing that she was so distracted, since it meant her French manager's sneer about her work ethic didn't manage reach her. Even the nearly three hour commute to the city of Marseille seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, only the memories her body held of traveling this route six times a week for more than five years kept her from missing her connections.

At home, Fatiah flopped down on the couch, her body uncomplaining of its aches for once, replaying that intimate scene over and over. Before she realised what she was doing, Fatiah had started imagining herself in the arms of that man whose face she hadn't even gotten a good look at.

She tried to shake it, but her imagination wouldn't leave her alone until she admitted the truth to herself. _I want that. I want someone to hold me so that I don't even care that there's a stranger staring at me as we're lying in bed._

Fatiah drew in a shuddering breath as she tried to look at that thought without gibbering in terror. Her family likely wouldn't approve of her choosing her own match, but they weren't here to act as go-betweens; she was on her own in everything else, so how could she be blamed for being alone in this?

The thought welled up that she ought to finally talk to Faiz, that gardener with the soulful eyes and the philosophy degree that worked the same hours she did at the hotel. She'd caught him staring at her every so often, both of them trapped in the propriety of their culture and their own shyness.

 _No more,_ Fatiah decided. _If we could have mornings like those two guests we would be foolish to put it off._ She looked out the window of her dingy little flat in _La Castellane_ , the neighbourhood that had been built for Algerian refugees during the revolution half a century earlier, and watched the sun set. A sunset that felt like the sun was rising on the rest of her life. _Those who went before built lives here; I shall do the same. No more looking back._

:-:-:-:-:

Ron was going to die, he was sure of it. Sweat was streaming from every part of his body, his legs and back burned, stones were digging into his shoes and he was wheezing like a leaky bellows. _Why the hell are we even sodding doing this?_ he grumbled in the privacy of his own mind.

In front of him a narrow path wound through a forest. The only thing really pulling him on, the only good thing about this whole day, was Hermione's arse clad in the smallest shorts Ron had ever seen. _Okay, maybe not as small as some of the stuff they wore back in France, but still…_ The brown material stretched over his friend's butt rather nicely and because of the steep incline of the path, Ron's head was level with her hips.

He was rudely pulled out of his reverie when he noticed Harry taking Hermione's hand to help her step onto a particularly large boulder. The way she smiled in thanks set off a storm of emotions in Ron's body.

"Ron? You alright, mate?" Harry asked, barely out of breath and wiping his forehead with that ridiculous handkerchief that Hermione had bought for him or insisted he buy and that he now wore knotted around his wrist. She'd tried to foist one on Ron too, but he wasn't wearing anything called a 'bandit' or that would make him look like a bandit to muggles.

Ron had noticed that Hermione herself was also wearing one of those bandits around her wrist. In fact, looking up at the two of them on that boulder, side by side, he noticed that a lot of their clothing made it look like they were a matching pair, right down to those clunky boots. He shook his head to rid himself of that thought. " 'm fine," he managed to gasp out, taking Harry's hand and letting himself be hauled up onto the rock where he flopped onto his back. "I jus' need a breather."

"Sure. Let's stop and have some water," Harry agreed. "The view would be worth it even if you didn't need to rest."

Ron considered responding that he didn't _need_ to be coddled, but decided that it would be a waste of breath when he could spend that time sucking down fresh, clean air. He heard his two friends taking off their backpacks, sifting through them and then some gulping that told him they were drinking from the water bottles.

A moment later Hermione leaned into Ron's field of vision, holding out a bottle for him to take. "Here," she offered with a smile that was somehow different from the one she'd given Harry, even if Ron would never be able to explain how. He forced himself to sit up and grabbed the water, slugging it down and basking in the cooling relief of the drink. When he lowered the bottle he found Hermione still looking at him with some concern. "You know, Ron, if this is too much for you, you could apparate back to the hotel."

"Yeah, mate," Harry agreed awkwardly, rubbing his neck. "Maybe this walking thing isn't for everyone."

"You're not walking… you're running, you are… up a bloody mountain," Ron retorted, his breathing still not entirely back to normal. He didn't want to add that he didn't want to leave the two of them alone right now.

He'd first noticed it once they'd left that French town, but something had changed between his two best friends, or between them and him or _something_. He was worried that if he left them to walk up mountains by themselves that they would drift even further away from him. _And_ why _in the name of Merlin's saggy y-fronts are we walking up a mountain in the first place?!_

"We're not 'running', Ron," Hermione lectured, a slight disapproving frown on her face.

"We'll this isn't bloody well a 'stroll'. Who actually does this for fun?" Ron saw the way Harry's face closed off and braced himself for the explosion.

"Ronald! You've seen plenty of other people at the waystations. I'll have you know that hiking is a very popular pass-time," Hermione snapped, right on cue, a half-step moving her body between him and Harry. "Besides, we spent a week at a beach resort like you wanted to and Harry and I didn't complain."

"Yeah, but that was fun and relaxing," Ron protested. "Now we're tiring ourselves out one day, going to some boring, stuffy museum the next and then apparating to Merlin knows where to do it all over again."

"Would you prefer that we walked every day and then repeated our visits to these various cities to go to a museum every day?" Hermione asked archly, a single eyebrow raised in a way that reminded Ron uncomfortably of McGonnagal.

"Not really?" Ron admitted.

"Then you should be happy that Harry and I combined our choices for our holiday weeks."

"I'd _prefer_ if we spent a bit more time just, y'know, sitting in a pub or something," Ron shot back, not ready to give up on this argument yet.

"Like I said: we did that with you in France," Hermione sniffed. "Now we're doing the things that Harry and I find relaxing. Besides, you can sit in the pub every night you like back in England, but you certainly wouldn't see something like this." She gestured at nothing in particular that Ron could see, just a bunch of trees standing lower down and another mountain in the distance.

"Yeah, because you'd be busy doing something fun instead," Ron muttered under his breath, turning his back on his friends as he pretended to look into the valley while leaning back against the nearest tree.

As the trio sat, an elderly couple passed them by with a cheerful " _Gruezi_!" Ron could practically feel Hermione's 'told-you-so' expression digging into the back of his neck and hunched his shoulders to nurse his injured pride.

After several minutes, Ron began to notice the way the roots of the tree were digging into his flesh. _Even sitting is uncomfortable around here._ He got up, brushing his trousers off and looked over at his friends. A scowl formed on his face as he noticed that Harry and Hermione were sitting so close to each other that their sides were touching. Hermione's head was leaning on Harry's shoulder and she was smiling that damn smile again. "You guys ready to go again?" he asked loudly, watching Hermione's head jerk up as his friends looked at him.

"Yeah, Ron. Ready when you are," Harry nodded, standing up and holding out a hand to help a slightly annoyed looking Hermione to her feet.

As they set off again, it took Ron all of three seconds to notice that his day was going to take a turn for the worse: Hermione had taken up the lead and he was now following Harry while the Boy Who Lived enjoyed the view Ron had before.

Scowling, Ron kept putting one foot in front of the other, but it took only minutes for the sweat to start running again under the burning sun. He wiped at his brow with the back of his hand, but only succeeded in smearing his sweat into his eyes. As if that wasn't bad enough, there were insects buzzing around his head. Ron swatted fruitlessly at the little invaders, but they cheerfully avoided his attacks and kept on strafing him.

Ron didn't know how long the torture had gone on for when a particularly fat beetle zoomed in front of him. Eager for some revenge, Ron stepped forward and swung his open hand. He cried out in triumph as he felt his hand smack the annoying bug away, but it quickly turned to panic as he realised that he'd overbalanced and that the rock he was standing on was loose. With an almighty crash, Ron slammed into the mountain path.

"Ron! Are you alright?!" Hands helped him into a sitting position and he saw his two friends looking him over worriedly. He heard a breath whistling in through Hermione's teeth. "That's a nasty cut, Ron. How are you feeling?"

Ron felt his ears burn as his temper spiked. "I feel like I hit some rocks," he snapped. "It hurts."

Hermione frowned at him. "I meant, do you have a headache? Broken bones? Something in your joints?"

"I'm fine!" Ron groused. "Or I would be if you hadn't made me leave my wand at the hotel."

"Would you have been able to keep from using it by now?" Harry asked in the tone of one who feels they already know the answer. "Besides, we've got some muggle first aid supplies. We can put plasters on your scrapes, which should keep you until we get to the hotel room."

Ron resisted the urge to snort about how pathetic muggle remedies were. "At least tell me it's not that far to the top."

"It really isn't," Hermione soothed. "When we get up there we'll eat and drink something before heading back down."

"What do you mean 'heading back down'?" Ron asked with a sinking feeling. "We were only going to walk up a mountain."

"Well, we can't just stay up there, can we?" Hermione asked in a matter-of-fact. "The hotel is down in the valley."

"You-… you mean we're not even halfway done for today?!"

Harry and Hermione shared a look. "Ah, well…"

It was too much. Ron had been walking all day already, he was hot, miserable and in pain and now they were telling him that he would have to go through all that again on the way down? "Sod this," growled. Barely looking to make sure that there were no muggles nearby, Ron twisted his magic around himself and disapparated, reappearing in the hotel room he was sharing with Harry.

He ripped open his rucksack and pulled out his wand, casting healing spells at every painful spot he could reach. Feeling a little better he flopped down on the bed and scowled at the ceiling. His earlier misgivings about Harry and Hermione spending all that time together on the mountain had resurfaced and he wasn't sure what to do about them. _Whatever. They're probably just acting weird because this place is weird; like, Fleur levels of weird. Bet she won't let Bill eat a normal breakfast either._

Ron turned on his side and punched his pillow to get it into a more comfortable shape. _I'll just wait until we're back in England. Everything'll make more sense then._

:-:-:-:-:

At the top of the mountain they'd been climbing, Harry and Hermione found a little hut with tables and benches surrounding it so that hikers could take a breather as they indulged in the view. Hermione insisted that they order a half-bottle of wine as a matter of politeness towards the people running the place before they sat down at one of the tables and dug into a lunch of fresh bread, a cheese Harry couldn't remember the name of and cured sausage that he was similarly unsure he'd ever be able to pronounce.

As the wind blew through his hair and he stared out at the world from a height he'd previously only reached on his broom, Harry felt lighter than he had in months, perhaps years. _Hermione was right,_ he thought to himself. _We might not be completely away from people, but this comes very close._

Now that Hermione had entered his thoughts, as she seemed to be doing more often this vacation he turned to look at her and found her studying him, her chin resting on her hand and a small smile playing around her mouth. He blushed a little at the bold look in her eyes. "Do I have something on my face?" he asked, self-consciously trying to move past the awkwardness he was feeling.

"Just a smile," Hermione responded. "I'm happy it's there."

Harry felt his blush deepen. "It's all thanks to you really," he muttered. "You're the one who suggested this vacation. You told me about hiking and… well, last week…" Harry shook his head as he couldn't find the words to finish his sentence.

Hermione seemed to understand though. She reached out to squeeze his hand and when he looked up she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his in a gentle kiss. "I'm happy we're on this vacation too," she murmured for his ears only, her eyes sparkling "I'd like to see you this happy for a long time."

An answer occurred to Harry, and for a half a second he doubted whether he should give voice to it. Looking into Hermione's face gave him the courage to go forward with it. "I'll be happy as long as you're with me."

Hermione laughed and kissed him again. "I think we can see about that," she smiled as she laid her head on his shoulder again.

Looking out at the mountains, Harry felt a soaring stomach in his gut that he didn't think had anything to do with the altitude.

* * *

_**The End** _

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> **AN:**
> 
> Knutsford is a real town about 14 miles away from Manchester. The name is a likely indication that Cnut the Great (after whom 'knuts' are named in the books) crossed a river right around there once during his campaigns conquering England in the beginning of the 11th century.
> 
> 'Gazza' is a nickname for people named 'Gary' that is used in a certain milieu, specifically the kind of milieu in which people are not going to use the word 'milieu' on the grounds that it's pretentious and foreign.
> 
> There is no such thing as a Marquisate of Toulouse. Toulouse was the seat of a county. Second, the Comte de Toulouse was a title held until the twelfth century, then disappeared until Louis XIV wanted to give one of his bastards a present and revived it as a courtesy title.
> 
> Fun fact: the Bourbon line still exists, but the French line (as opposed to the line _de Borbon-Anjou_ , which is currently better known as the Spanish royal family) has been inherited by the House d'Orleans. The current head of the house, who would have been about 34 at the time of this story, is Prince Jean, Count of Paris, known to some as Jean IV of France, Orleans pretender to the throne of France. His son, Gaston, is currently the Comte de Clermont and will one day be Duc de Vendome, _none of which means anything since France removed the aristocracy during the Revolution._ Seriously, France still has a pseudo-royal family, though it is not in any way supported, but it is hilarious to look into if you have the time.
> 
>  _Le Chat Noir_ is a real club in Cannes, though I've never been there. I just looked up clubs in Cannes and chose one with fairly dim reviews. That said, it does seem like there is a place called _Le Chat Noir_ in nearly every French city, so make of that what you will (and no, Americans, it isn't a franchise like McDonalds).
> 
> If you read some of the words Jordi and Guillem used and thought "that's not the Spanish I learnt at school," you're probably right. They use Catalan.
> 
> Having worked behind bars for a decade, I can confirm that most bartenders (at least in loud, dark nightclubs) tend to remember you as a combination of a drink preference and personal characteristic. It makes the job easier. Also: we referred to sweet white wine as 'hooker diesel' (because it was cheap and easy to swill all night long, especially for teenage girls wanting to prove that they were 'mature' by sleeping with teenage boys), but that didn't really translate as nicely into French.
> 
> On the old 100 franc notes (well, the last ones they used at least) there was an image of Paul Cezanne. I thought an art student with a love for painting would notice. I wasn't old enough to hit up this kind of tourist trap in the nineties, so the prices are mostly guesswork and some maths to convert from euros to francs.
> 
> The Algerian Civil War was so vicious that it was known as 'la salle guerre', the dirty war. The murders of intellectuals, writers, doctors (anyone who could think, really) started in March of 1993 and the cruelty to civilians became one of the more noted aspects of this conflict.
> 
> I'll admit that the contrast between Ron's chosen holiday and what Hermione and Harry chose is mostly down to my personal preference. I don't really enjoy seaside resorts or all-inclusive holidays. Give me a windy trail up an Alp and a museum (and some good food) any day.
> 
>  _Gruezi_ is a shortening of _Grüssgott_ which you will hear a lot in Switzerland.
> 
> Harry and Hermione are wearing _bandanas_ , obviously. Priceless to have along when hiking in the heat for everything from sweat-band to cooling method (if dunked in water and wrapped around the neck) to first aid supply for bandaging or supporting (I've damaged my meniscus and used a bandana to lift my patella so I could walk on the way down).
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading and see you at the next one.


End file.
